Like every other griever, I kept the memorial card
in a book for awhile. Or my pocket. I skipped
the potluck because I had a pedicure, or didn’t have enough
time in my schedule or didn’t make any. I can’t
be everywhere at once except when I am
online. Someone texted me while I was touching
her coffin. While my left hand was resting
on my friend’s satin-lined box and my right hand
made the sign of the cross, my phone
buzzed. This is modern life and the Victorian era
happening at once. This is technology and yes-even-if-you-
have-a-good-cell-plan-people-die vibrating my ass.
44 year-olds aren’t supposed to leave this early.
My head has been soaking in dish soap, my hands?
Crossing off funerals songs from my iPhone.
All these winters have caught up to me. I can’t explain
this turmoil. For a few days I saw God in everything—
the flickering lamp, the bathwater, the unwashed dishes
—but I forgot faith somewhere in the parking lot
when I let the memorial card slip out of the pages
of my book, so I could stop remembering she was gone.